Troy "The Boil" Doyle blamed society. Consequently, he felt justified in being a jerk, and there was no better time to let your jerk flag fly than Halloween. The little reprobate took full opportunity of the holiday to soap, smash, TP and make smaller kids cry through trick or treachery.

In preparation for his night of holiday hooliganism, The Boil rooted around in the fridge of his mother's bakery-slash-seafood diner, "Carbs 'n' Crabs," until he pulled out a carton of eggs. As dusk turned to dark, he fled the restaurant with his stash of ovoid missiles. He was dressed for Halloween as a demonic delinquent, which was his regular look except with "T-H-U-G" written across the knuckles of his left hand and "G-O-O-L" across the other; The Boil was failing Grade 10 English.

Immediately, The Boil embarked upon his egging spree. Ker-splat! Against the front door of the McBeebly place. Shplook! On Mrs. Merderber mezzanine. Bla-shoom! A bullseye on the windshield of a passing Prius. Ch-ch-ch-chshplANGG! A palpable hit on Old Man Jacobson's front yard oscillating fan.

Did he hesitate when he came to the gloomy, doomy rooming house of the Widow Wetchard? Did he pause as he pulled back his faux-tattooed, egg-enclasping fist? Did he think about the direction his life was taking? Of course, not! He was a punk, a nogoodnik, a lowlife. Spare your sympathy.

But he did jump back a step when, just as the egg shellAMMed against the Widow Wetchard's door, that very door flung open, as if triggered by some otherworldly power, and there stood the cronish form of the seldom-seen spinster herself. She pointed a bony but surprisingly manicured finger at The Boil and cried:

"Ovulum albumen vandalus goo

My portal be runny and you shall be too."

"Ahh, your mother was a pawnbroker," jeered The Boil and raced down the street.

He was just about to throw an egg at the storefront window of Nickerson's Knick Knacks when it slipped out of his hand and fell to the sidewalk. The Boil instinctively looked at his hand. It was -- dripping.

"Huh?" he said, which is about what you'd expect.

He raised his other hand. The finger tips were oozing too, coated with a yellow, viscous slime. He flicked his fingers to shake off the substance, but the mucousy tendrils merely seeped further up his wrists.

"Blubba-blubba!" cried The Boil, and he began to desperately wipe his hands and arms on his shirt, his pants, his espadrilles. But to no avail. The translucent goop only spread further, positively Seussian in its relentless oobleckian advance, down his torso, to his thighs, bypassing his knees strangely enough, and straight down to his toes.

"Gemme my Mama!!" shouted the hysterical The Boil as he began racing down the street, leaving an eggy trail behind him. Trick-or-treaters pointed. Some laughed, some cringed, most Instagrammed.

"Look, Mommy," said a little girl. "He is the eggman, he is the eggman."

In panic, screaming and blubbering, The Boil kept running, always running, very runny. "Stop it! Stop it!" he screamed at passersby, but with his egg-gummed mouth, it sounded like he was saying, "Omelet! Omelet!" so they only replied, "Yes, you are," and continued on.

Frittata at last, The Boil lurched towards his mother's diner, the egg coating growing thicker and denser, Trump-like, making movement and breathing ever more difficult. The diner was closed, but The Boil managed to scramble through a partly opened window in the rear. A mere shell of his former self, he stumbled blindly in the kitchen, bashing into the bins of flour, coating himself with the white powder until, with one last gurgle, he collapsed in a yolky heap onto the griddle.

That's where his mother found him early the next morning, though by then he was unrecognizable. Distraught, horrified, annoyed by the mess, she called the police. They arrived within minutes, eager to crack the case.

"Turn him over easy," said the chief inspector. He prodded the flour-and-egg-coated body with a spatula. "Hmmm, looks like he's been badly battered."